


Lilacs out of the Dead Land

by Temporalis (Elvaron)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4781156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvaron/pseuds/Temporalis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There was a red pin in Redcliffe Village, from where Trevelyan had sent his last raven. After that, nothing.</i> When Trevelyan goes missing on what should have been a routine mission and is presumed dead, Cullen shatters under the guilt of sending his leader and the love of his life to his death. So when Trevelyan starts showing up in his dreams, Cullen is pretty sure that it's a product of stress, or a desire demon wearing his lover's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lilacs out of the Dead Land

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14614.html?thread=58021142#t58021142) prompt on the Dragon Age Kink Meme.
> 
> Warnings for character death, mentions of substance addiction and abuse (lyrium).

Winter was moving in. Cullen could feel it in the nip of the air, which was chilled both from the late autumn, as well as the distinctly cool way that Trevelyan was eying the hole in the roof of Cullen's bedroom. The Inquisitor was not a fan of open-concept designs. 

"It will be mended by the time you get back, I promise," Cullen said softly. 

"Or you will simply have to move into my rooms," Trevelyan replied, equally softly. He turned to light a candle with a casual wave of his hand. "Maker knows I have enough space."

"Or too much space, perhaps. It's too empty when you're away," Cullen replied. 

"Just as there's too much space between us." Amusement edged Trevelyan's tone as he moved in, his gaze intent. "In the meantime, I suppose you'll just have to keep me warm."

They met in the middle, with the ease of partners who had danced this dance times beyond count. Trevelyan's left hand warm on his cheek, sliding across his neck to the back of his head, the mark tingling against Cullen's skin. The Inquisitor tipped his face up, meeting him in a kiss that was as deep as it was enthusiastic, and Cullen felt want flaring in him, sparking to sudden life like the magical flames that Trevelyan conjured with such ease. He pressed back, his fingers making short work of the buttons on Trevelyan's tunic, hooking in the waistband of breeches that Cullen always thought were tight enough to leave _nothing_ to the imagination. Trevelyan's fingers, long and nimble, skated across his back, seeking out clasps and buckles with practised ease.

Clothes went. All thoughts of the cold went too, as Trevelyan backed him right into his bed. Cullen found himself on his back, his fingers threading through Trevelyan's hair as Trevelyan's teeth grazing his collarbone. Those long mage fingers tracing the curve of his hipbone before moving to palm him, stroking him in long, fluid strokes, as Cullen growled a little, arching up into his touch.

Skin on skin. Flame and fire. Another kiss, positively electric, and Cullen thought, not for the first time, that if sleeping with a mage was always like this, it was no wonder that some of them seemed to be constantly at it in the Circle. By the time they parted, they were both breathing hard. He curled fingers against Trevelyan's chest, feeling the way his heartbeat raced, so alive, and his other hand moved to cup the small of Trevelyan's back, even as he raised his pelvis, grinding hard against him.

"We're enthusiastic today," Trevelyan murmured.

"You're going to be away," Cullen pointed out. "I daresay we have to start making up for lost time."

"A week at most. Nevertheless, I approve of this course of action," Trevelyan returned, a wicked gleam in his eye, before he ducked down, moving to take Cullen in his mouth. 

_Maker,_ but Trevelyan was startlingly good at this. He wondered, again, if it was some mage trick, or perhaps it was practice with all those murmured incantations, because the world dissolved into flashing stars. His fingers fisted in the sheets as Trevelyan worked him over, and Cullen could feel his breath stuttering in the back of his throat, tiny little noises of pure need that only seemed to encourage the other. Pleasure ricocheted through him, the tremors of a harpstring pulled tight, coaxed to song by the gentle strumming of the harpist. His hands found their way to Trevelyan's shoulders, mapping the familiar landscape of muscle and scars, familiar to him as the maps of Fereldan and Orlais adorning the war room.

He still wasn't entirely sure how they had arrived at this, two halves of a whole, but he had never felt more complete. Trevelyan fit into him like the interlocking pieces of a dwarven puzzle box from Orzammar, where the pieces left no visible seam when they clicked into place. A former Circle mage and a former Templar - who would have thought? But it worked, somehow, Trevelyan's gentle flirting and approaches blowing warmth into the gaping rent in his heart, healing it as effectively as he sealed a rift in the Fade. 

His thighs tightened as Trevelyan's tongue flicked just _so_ , tension building in him like the inevitable climax, and Trevelyan picked up on it, moving to position himself between Cullen's legs. 

Trevelyan made love the same way he did everything else - gentle but purposive, quiet but passionate, sweeping up everyone in his relentless drive to get what he wanted. Cullen's fingers were going to leave marks on the Inquisitor's hips, the way he was gripping them, and he wondered if they would have faded by the time Trevelyan returned. He hoped not. 

The warmth of the Inquisitor's hand mingled with the ethereal tingle of the mark as it ghosted across his side, familiar as the soft sounds that Trevelyan was making with each thrust. Trevelyan smelt of elfroot, underscored by the sharper scent of something that Cullen had come to associate with arcane energy, the way the air smelt when a storm was on its way. They moved, rising and falling, time burning away to nothing more than the single, blazing moment of the present. Impossible to tell where he ended and Trevelyan began, his world simultaneously spiralling down and expanding impossibly as Trevelyan drove into him, and Cullen dragged tongue and teeth across the other's neck.

When he came, it might have been Trevelyan's name that he whispered in ghost of a breath, the barest shaping of a single word on the tail of an exhale. 

_Maxwell._

*

The Inquisitor was late. 

Winter came early, bringing with it the worst snowfalls that Cullen had ever seen. The roads were blocked, their scouts and troops confined indoors. Even Leliana's ravens could not venture out in a storm, and so news was delayed. Days crept by, and Cullen's pillow smelt a little less like elfroot every night.

One week turned into two. And into three. 

Trevelyan was probably snowed under, Cullen told himself. Locked down in some small town, waiting for the roads to clear so that he could ride on, waiting for the skies to clear so that he could send a raven through. 

Three weeks turned into four.

Cullen sat alone in the darkened war room, staring at the map by the flickering light of a single candle. The Inquisitor's path - the Inquisitor's intended path - was marked out by a series of pins. A short hop. A safe hop. Just a little jaunt out to the Hinterlands to check out reports of new rifts cropping up. It was a journey of four days, maybe five at most? A week, if they ran into complications. 

There was a red pin in Redcliffe Village, from where Trevelyan had sent his last raven. After that, nothing. 

He didn't realise that he was running his hands through his hair until he felt a slight, tugging pain in his scalp. With the benefit of hindsight, he could see all the ways he could have done this differently. Listened to Leliana when she said that the rumours seemed shaky, and that she would send scouts to verify them. Leaned on Josephine's contacts to find out what was going on in the area. Found out _more_ , and maybe sent the garrison at Redcliffe along with the Inquisitor, instead of just taking Trevelyan's word for it that a small party of four would be sufficient to deal with anything that the world threw his way. _I defeated Corypheus with just three friends in tow, after all,_ he'd joked, and Cullen had laughed, and agreed.

Except that he'd overlooked one, small critical point. The party accompanying Trevelyan hadn't been his trusted inner circle, the ones who'd fought countless battles by his side, who'd learnt to move as a single, seamless unit. Gone was Cassandra, to take the Sunburst throne. Vivienne had followed, gone to establish the new Circles in Orlais. When the green of summer had turned to the red of autumn, Dorian had sailed for sunny Tevinter, laughter in his voice and determined purpose in his eye, saying that he refused to spend another winter freezing in the barbaric south and _I hate you passionately, Trevelyan, thank you for everything, and dear Cullen, if you need any advice on how to keep him warm at night, just write_.

Varric had slipped away soon after, leaving behind a signed copy of "The Man with the Shiny Hand: The Inquisitor Trevelyan story (Working title)", and Cole had expressed a desire to go with him - the two had become strangely close. Sera had been meeting up with her Red Jenny contacts, and Blackwall had gone to secure new mounts for the Inquisition, so Trevelyan had ridden out with the Iron Bull, one of Leliana's veteran scouts, and an ex-templar that Cullen had recommended. 

It was Cullen's _job_ to think of all the worst case scenarios, and right now he couldn't stop. Maybe they should have brought another mage - Trevelyan was _terrible_ at remembering when to keep his barriers up. Maybe Cullen should have sent someone other than Ser Eldric, who wasn't getting any younger. He could see it now - Trevelyan charging into battle, taking the frontline together with Bull, depending on his backline mages and archers to cover him… Eldric wasn't _used_ to mages who did that, and Leliana's scout… was he an archer, or did he use daggers? 

And maybe Cullen should simply have paid more attention to the weather before persuading Trevelyan that it was necessary for the Inquisitor himself to go in person. They'd been baited before, Corypheus himself had opened the breach to draw the Inquisitor personally into a trap, and how could he have even agreed to let Trevelyan go charging headlong into danger, let alone _encouraged_ it?

Maybe. What if. Could-have-beens. In the flickering candlelight, the red pin on Redcliffe village was the colour of blood.

*

"Commander!"

Cullen hadn't exactly been sleeping. It was more akin to dozing with his eyes open, as he stared at the patched ceiling overhead, remembering a promise made in autumn. It was fixed now, and Trevelyan wasn't back. Part of him, the part that was knotted sick with worry, was almost angry at Trevelyan for not keeping up his side of the bargain. 

But right now, his eyes were definitely not on the patch of newly installed ceiling. Instead, they were on his boots as he scrambled to pull them on, before rappelling down the ladder that led to his office. Given the time of night, it was probably an emergency or - dare he hope that one of Leliana's scouts had spied Trevelyan riding up the road to Skyhold? The snowstorms had finally abated in the last week or so, giving them hope that the Inquisitor's party would be able to send word.

Granted, as much as he would have loved to hope that Trevelyan was thundering through the gates right now, he knew, realistically, that they were far more likely to receive a raven before anything else. Still, news was surely better than the interminable waiting, wasn't it?

One look at his lieutenant's ashen expression was enough to dash that small, sparkling flicker of hope.

"Raven from Iron Bull, sir," Ser Rylen said, mercifully cutting straight to the chase. "He's back at Redcliffe, and the Inquisitor is lost."

Cullen felt like he was encased in ice and armour, numb to the core. His heart was a distant thing, barely perceptible, and the only thing driving him forward now was his will. The need of a soldier to shove aside fear and pain and to focus simply on survival, on salvaging what ground he could. The need to _keep fighting_.

He took a deep breath, pulling on mental armour, plate upon plate, and engaged.

"Lost how?" he asked. "Fallen in battle or captured?" He was already striding across the battlements towards the main building of Skyhold, heading towards the war room. Heading towards war. If Trevelyan was captured, every second was vital. And if he was dead, every second was even more critical, the difference between the Inquisition's fragmentation and survival … and the difference between being able to exact vengeance in full, or not at all.

"The report wasn't clear," Rylen said, falling into step beside him. "Apparently the reports of fade rifts were fake, and their party rode into an ambush. Ser Eldric and Scout Alicia were both killed, and the Iron Bull was separated from the Inquisitor. Search parties are combing the area, but there's no sign of a body."

Cullen hit the door to the war room so hard that it crashed open, slamming into the wall with a crunch and a thud that resounded throughout the hallway.

Josephine, who had been standing at the table, nearly jumped out of her skin. 

"I'm sorry," Cullen said, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Breathe. Just breathe. Draw on the calmness of the vigil, empty yourself of emotion._

The ambassador - a saint in her own right - simply put a hand on his elbow, her gaze radiating sympathy. "The Redcliffe garrison sent a second raven - they found the culprits. Lord Elbany, of a minor family with a feud against the Trevelyans, who thought to take the Inquisitor hostage and use him as a bargaining chip to improve their political standing. Unfortunately…"

"Unfortunately what?" Cullen asked. The numbness was starting to wear off - too early, he still had so many things to do - and he could feel his heart once more. It was crumbling in on itself, squeezing into sheer agony in the middle of his chest. 

"Unfortunately, they have no idea where the Inquisitor is either," Leliana said from the doorway. She strode in, a note held in her hands, and Cullen thought this was the first time he'd ever seen her fingers shake. "According to Elbany, he had issued orders to take the Inquisitor alive at all cost. However --" her lips compressed briefly into a line, before she forced herself to continue, "--when his mercenary company engaged the Inquisitor's party, the Inquisitor apparently released some form of magic that killed everyone, and the Inquisitor himself… disappeared."

"Disappeared," Cullen echoed. His voice rang hollowly, and even the echoes seemed to be swallowed by the darkness. 

"I have scouts searching--" Leliana was saying, and Josephine was asking questions about how reliable Elbany's words were, and whether there were any eyewitnesses, and all the words were simply blurring into garbled, unintelligible _noise_. A flash of magic? What kind of magic _did_ that? 

_Images of the tall walls of a Circle tower, the screams of mages, flesh swelling, twisting, reshaping itself into impossible forms…_

No. Not Trevelyan. Surely not. 

"Commander?"

But _every_ mage had that potential, was what they said. And when pushed into a corner…

Trevelyan had a talent with magic that was indisputable, was widely said to be one of the most powerful mages in Southern Thedas now, and in fact, the mages here were so _proud_ of him, said that he could take any magister in Tevinter in a fight, and ha! Hadn't he proven that, by taking down the oldest and ugliest of them at all?

"Commander!"

But Trevelyan was a seasoned veteran of so many battles. He'd been pushed into a corner times beyond count, had faced certain death _so many times_ , and had never, ever resorted to blood magic. Surely, surely--

" _Cullen!_ "

He glanced up, seeing Leliana before him, her gaze troubled but resolute. "We need to--"

"We need to find him," Cullen said. "And I need a horse."

Josephine glanced over at him, her eyes wide. "Commander, surely you cannot ride out now--"

" _I_ need to find him," Cullen snapped, then reined himself in and moderated his voice. "I don't have senior officers on the ground in Redcliffe - most of them are at Inquisition outposts in Crestwood and the Western Approach, or here at Skyhold itself. We need eyes and feet on the ground, and this is an operation that I would prefer to … would need to … supervise personally. I can't -- _can't_ \-- do it from here." 

If his voice cracked on that last sentence, neither of his fellow advisors commented on it.

"Ser Rylen can assume my duties here in the interim," Cullen continued. "It shouldn't be long, and I will return as quickly as possible, once pieces have been moved into play in the Hinterlands." 

Pieces, on a chessboard. Keep thinking of it in those terms. Try not to think of the stakes. 

"A week, at most," Leliana said. "We will need you back here then, especially if the Inquisitor has not been found."

 _A week at most,_ that was what Trevelyan had said, too. And if the Inquisitor was still missing, they would have to start planning for the worst. Find a way to ensure the survival of the Inquisition, the survival of his legacy, all his work in uniting Thedas, keeping the fragile truce between the mages and the templars. Keep forging a way to a brighter future.

Except… how did they go on, when the heart of their flame had flickered out?

How did _he_ go on?

"A week," Cullen said, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword. Pain was radiating out from under his breastbone in waves now, but he took it, channeled it, forged it into the will to find Trevelyan and bring him home, no matter the price. "At most."

*


End file.
